


The Swan in the River of Oblivion

by Aate



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Hades and Persephone AU, Hades!Percival, Infatuated Kidnapper, Kidnapping, M/M, Overprotective Theseus Scamander, Persephone!Newt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9543986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aate/pseuds/Aate
Summary: The god of death doesn't need a wife, exactly, but when he sees Newt, the god of spring with golden curls and bright eyes, he decides he wants one nonetheless - and what he wants, he takes.Admittedly, it would make things easier if his bride's brother wouldn't take the whole abduction thing as an insult to his very person. Really, Newt is now Percival's and Theseus should just accept it and stop being so difficult.Hades and Persephone AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not save my fics on fanfics.me. I don't want them saved there.

In a crowd full of pure white togas, the god of death with his dark leather kilt and his scarred bare chest stood out like a wolf among sheep. Where the other gods wore gold and silver and pearls, Percival had a skull of a python on a chain hanging from his neck, the slight touch of grey in his black mane of hair the only silver he always carried in his person.

Dark like night, his eyes raked over the people gathered in the great hall of Mount Olympus before the dais of the high gods. Many he recognized from the crowd, gods and goddesses who had fought with him and Seraphina against Grindelwald when the world had still been young, but new gods had come to exist since and most of them Percival did not know.

He did not like _not knowing_ and his displeasure showed on his face.

“No need to look quite so murderous,” said Seraphina from where she was sitting on his left, a wine goblet in her slender hand. There was a slight frown between her eyes, but otherwise she had arranged herself elegantly on her chair, her white toga with its gold accents a contrast to her dark skin. “I don’t need you scaring any of my guests away with your glaring.”

Percival looked at her, bewildered by the accusations.

“If I was glaring at someone, their skin would burst into flames," he pointed out. "Yet, no-one is on fire – therefore, I’m not glaring. I’m merely keeping my eyes open and watching my surroundings.”

He tapped his fingers against the smooth armrest of his chair, studying the people before him, doing his best to block out the salty smell of sea that floated to his nostrils from where the sea gods were chatting by the columns.

They were in the great hall of Mount Olympus, Seraphina and Percival, surrounded by a large crowd of gods and goddesses who kept sending Percival glances, something between grudging respect and fear, he didn’t care to observe closer which. As the goddess of the sky and the ruler of Mount Olympus, Seraphina had had the hall decorated with lightning lanterns, but Percival - busy with the internal matters of his realm - didn’t visit often enough to know whether the lanterns were always there or whether they had been put up just for the night, for _The Godly Gathering_ Seraphina hosted on Mount Olympus once every few century.

Even though he tried to appreciate the effort it had taken for someone to decorate the hall, the style of the decorations made Percival slightly uncomfortable – he didn’t much care for the unreachable, for the sky looming above the world like the roof of a poorly pitched tent about to collapse, and – looking at the paintings of the Sun, the Moon and the stars on the walls, looking at the high pillars painted to look like rainbows – he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to have their home to look like the sky.

He should have stayed in his realm, Percival decided, a bitter taste in his mouth, he should have stayed _at home_ overseeing the procedures of the souls of mortals being sent to their rightful destinations by The Three Judges, he should have been there to ensure that Grindelwald would remain imprisoned in the deepest pits of Tartarus, and if Tina had forgotten to feed Cerberus again while he was away, he would have her thrown in the River of Oblivion, his favorite Arae though she might have been.

“Be that as it may,” said Seraphina, cutting off his line of thought, “you could at least _try_ to look a little more approachable. I’m almost out of wine – yet, the servants are too fearful to approach us to pour me more.”

Suddenly overly conscious of the way his goblet remained untouched on the table beside him, Percival frowned down at his his boots crossed at the ankles. He had promised himself he would drink after dancing, but even though the goddess of music was filling the hall with cheerful melodies, he hadn't yet danced. No-one had dared to approach him and the seven times he had left the dais to step closer to someone, they had run off, terrified, before he had had a chance to even greet them.

“It is hardly my fault,” Percival said, haughty, clenching his fists around the armrests of the chair, “if your servants are such cowards that they cannot withstand my looking in their way, that my proximity scares them from fulfilling their duties.”

Turning her gaze away from him in order to study her dancing, chatting guests, Seraphina let out a loud pointed sigh before drinking the last drops of her wine, looking then at the bottom of the empty goblet mournfully. She motioned for a young servant boy, the god of whistling, to come and fill her goblet – which he also did, trembling the whole time as he stared at Percival, eyes wide, doing his very best to stay as far away from him as physically possible as he poured Seraphina wine.

So very pitiful.

Percival sighed to himself, missing Cerberus and his pomegranate garden, annoyed that he had to waste his time with gods and goddesses who trembled at the sight of him even though he had never done anything to them (apart from occasionally taking some of them down to the fiery pits of Tartarus for eternal torment).

Why had he even bothered to attend this gathering?

 _Because you are lonely_ , a voice instantly whispered in his ear. He had come here because he was lonely and he had hoped – hoped, _wished_ – for a companionable evening.

Such wishful thinking.

He should have known better, Percival knew, angry with himself for feeling disappointed – he _should_ have known better, he should have been wiser. He was feared, he knew that, had known it before coming here. His peers, other gods and goddesses, didn’t like having him in their midst.

He should have stayed at home, he thought, very much aware of the terrified looks the god of whistling kept on giving him like the boy was afraid he might strike him down at any given moment.

“You might underestimate it yourself, Percival,” Seraphina said once the god of whistling had hastily withdrawn having filled her goblet to the prim, “but you have always been naturally imposing, even before we defeated Grindelwald and divided the cosmos between us, even before you became the god of death.”

“That’s hardly a flaw, so don’t make it sound like one.”

She gave him an unimpressed look.

“I’m merely trying to tell you,” she went on carefully, “ _as your friend_ , that you hardly ever leave your realm and I only see you a couple of times a century, if that. It might do you some good to socialize more."

With whom, exactly?

Percival levelled her with a disbelieving look.

As it was, _Percival_ wouldn’t have much minded socializing, occasionally, but most beings minded socializing with _him_ which made socializing in general admittedly rather challenging to him, and it wasn’t helping any that Seraphina thought he was being difficult on purpose. Outside of the Underworld, of his home, he was regarded with fear or terror or a combination of the two. While only a few gods – let alone mortals – dared to be outright hostile towards him, most of them loathed even the mention of his name, so fearful of it that they rarely called him “Percival”, choosing instead to refer to him as “the one who rules over death”, “Gravedigger” or “Graves”.

Where Percival knew death to be a mercy for the most, both mortals and immortals alike tended to think him cruel – that was, of course, until mortals inevitably came face to face with him in the Underworld and learnt that he treated them fairly, that his realm was a peaceful place to rest for the most of them, to those who weren’t evil enough to be sent down to Tartanus, to the pits of eternal torment where evil was contained.

Still, the last time Percival had walked among living mortals to order three new food bowls for Cerberus, the humans had hidden their children and had fallen to their knees before him until all the wailing and pleading and begging and the “please, god of death, do not take anyone with you, we beg of you, _we beg of you_ , have mercy on us” had become so awkward that he had decided that he would ask the god of woodwork to make him a few bowls rather than to order them from a terrified mortal, no matter how skilled a bowl maker the mortal in question was rumored to be.

“If you left the Underworld more often,” Seraphina sighed when Percival pointed all this out to her, rubbing her temple with the fingers that weren’t holding on to the wine goblet, “people would become more familiar with you and then they might not fear you quite so much.”

He must have looked rather skeptical because glancing at him made her sigh, her shoulders slump.

“It’s not healthy for you to stay down in your realm with only souls of mortals, various kinds of ghastly beasts and a few people who work for you for company,” she said, uncharacteristically gently. “Wait a few millennia more, Percival, and it _will_ start to have a negative impact on you, if it hasn’t already.”

“I’m content with my life as it is.”

“At least get yourself a wife,” Seraphina suggested. Then, seeing the dawning horror on his face, quickly added, “ _I’m_ not proposing to you, don’t worry, don’t worry – I certainly do not want to become your wife, you’re like a brother to me, and I’m busy enough with all the children I’ve made over the centuries as it is. I’m really not interested in having any with you.”

She had had so many children over thousands of years with various men, mortal and immortal alike, that Percival likely hadn’t even met them all. Three of her sons, Mino, Radus and Acus – whom Seraphina had had with two different mortal men – he had met in the Underworld after they had died, and he had made them his Three Judges due to her pleas and requests and tears, putting them in charge of judging the souls that came to the Underworld. He didn’t regret this decision: Mino, Radus and Acus were fair and they took their job just as seriously as Percival demanded. Had they not, he would have removed them from their positions regardless of the pain it would have caused Seraphina – against the common belief, it _was_ important to him that the souls residing in his realm were treated fairly.

As The Three Judges, Mino, Radus and Acus could still occasionally meet their mother when she came to visit him in his palace by the River of Oblivion where they, too, now resided, but if Percival was to send them further in his realm among other souls, Seraphina would never again get to meet them unless she agreed to become a subject of his realm which she wasn’t likely to ever do. This was with no doubt affecting his relationship with Seraphina, Percival suspected, and sometimes he wondered if she was being particularly cautious when around him, if she was doing her very best to stay in his good books just so he wouldn’t use her sons against her, so he wouldn’t send them away and prevent her from seeing them again.

Percival could only hope that she knew him better than that, but he wouldn’t have put it past her.

Seraphina cleared her throat.

“I could introduce you to suitable goddesses,” she suggested. "To help you find a wife."

“I prefer gods."

“Gods, then. I’ll introduce you to some nice, available gods. We’ll find you a nice god for a wife, for a companion.”

“ _We_ will find nothing,” he told her firmly. “I’m not taking love advice from someone who has a history of turning herself into a bull to kidnap mortal men for fucking.”

They regarded each other in silence.

“Fair enough,” Seraphina eventually said, looking away with a cough.

When the food was served, Percival promptly forgot all Seraphina had been saying about wives – that was, until a few hours later when he met the god of spring with his golden curls and bright eyes for the very first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaawn. It's late and I need to go to sleep, but I wanted to post a chapter today before going to bed. I hope someone liked it.
> 
> Please do let me know if that someone was you. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

After the feast, Seraphina allowed her guests to approach the dais to tell her of the matters that were on their mind weighing them down. She listened attentively when the god of aspiring poets, short and round and the first one to step forth, voiced his concern over the way mortals weren’t "supportive enough of aspiring poets", that aspiring poets were "often misunderstood or made fun of", asking Seraphina – as the high goddess – to take a stronger stance when it came to aspiring poets.

Perhaps, if the god of aspiring poets hadn’t had such a squeaky high-pitched voice, or perhaps if he hadn’t spoken entirely in rhymes, Percival wouldn’t have lost his patience, but as it happened, the god of aspiring poets _did_ have a terribly high-pitched voice and every single one of his sentences _did_ rhyme.

Patient as he was trying to be, there was only so much Percival could take.

“If you open your mouth one more time where I can hear you,” he cut off whatever it was the god of aspiring poets might have wanted to complain about next, “I will shove my fist down your throat and pull your vocal cords out.”

There was an instant hush in the feast hall and the god of aspiring poets blanched, pressing his lips so tightly together they turned white. He covered his mouth with trembling hands, and Seraphina let out a sigh, rubbing her temples like she had a headache.

“Please, Percival,” she said, “refrain from threatening my subjects with physical harm. It is simply impolite, and we only just ate, so at least let my food settle before I’m forced to fight you to defend the honor of my realm.”

“My apologies,” Percival said with a bit of a huff, doing his best to not glare at the god of aspiring poets because Seraphina likely wouldn’t have taken it well had Percival set one of her subjects in flames.

After the god of aspiring poets, no-one dared to step forward to tell Seraphina of the things weighing them down, gods and goddesses all glancing warily in Percival’s way before lowering their gazes in a fearful manner – they didn’t want to take a risk _they_ would get threatened by the god of death. No-one was speaking, no-one seemed to dare risking Percival pulling their vocal cords out, some of the deities likely remembering the time Percival had done it to the god of loud eating (Percival had apologized and had eventually put the vocal cords back to their place again, and while the god of loud eating had forgiven him some decades later, it looked like the memory was still fresh in many a deity’s mind despite of it to have happened over a thousand years ago).

The god of aspiring poets was still hyperventilating, sitting on the floor near the front door where his friends were gathered around him, fanning him with their hands, bringing water up to his pale lips, and Percival suddenly felt earnestly bad.

“Sorry,” he said again, clearing his throat, and raised his voice to be heard, “I apologize for scaring you, god of aspiring poets!”

For one single moment, the eyes of the god of aspiring poets bulged – then the god burst into tears, along with several other deities who all left the great hall, running.

Seraphina sighed again, as the doors fell closed behind the last of the twelve gods and eleven goddesses who had run off crying.

“Please do stop scaring my guests, Percival,” she asked, eyes closed as she again rubbed circles on her temples.

Percival stared at the closed oak doors, confused.

“But I was apologizing. Why would that scare them?”

“Because,” Seraphina said patiently, “because you raised your voice. They were too scared to comprehend the meaning of your words. They only heard your tone of voice. They heard you yelling and it scared them.”

Oh.

Well.

Percival wouldn’t come to the next Godly Gathering, he decided it there and then. He wouldn’t want to experience a repeat of this, no matter how lonely he would grow.

* * *

Outside the feast hall, the chirping of crickets was louder than the muffled noises coming from inside where the - singing, debating, feasting, dancing - gods and goddesses were by now in various stages of drunk. On his way out, Percival had had to thread his way through the crowd, past puddles of spilled wine, past gods who had passed out, past couples (and small groups) who were fucking right there on the white marble floor where everyone could see them.

_The Godly Gathering_ hadn’t supposed to become an orgy, Seraphina had sworn so when Percival had specifically asked about it beforehand, but Seraphina’s feasts _always_ turned into orgies in the end and Percival really should have known better than to expect anything different from this one.

It wasn’t that Percival minded, exactly – he had, after all, liked to participate in orgies, once, when he was young and hadn’t yet experienced life outside Mount Olympus – but nowadays he no longer had the urge to seek out such pleasures, to get intoxicated enough to cloud his mind, his judgement, to spill his seed in any a willing body.

Nowadays he wanted his couplings to have meaning, he wanted to have a personal connection of hearts and minds with whomever he would take, and as he hadn’t yet found anyone with whom he could have had that connection, he had settled for pleasuring himself with his own hand rather than fucking the first interested god he could have found – and he _could_ have found someone, despite of being hated and feared: there were some who were aroused by his imposing manner, by the fear they felt, by the sense of danger he offered, some who found him equally striking and terrifying, some who wanted to have a taste of Danger, as they referred to Percival, those desperate beings who were ready to risk death for a quick fuck. While sex would have given Percival's body momentary pleasure, he knew his heart would not have been in it, his heart would have felt empty afterwards.

He didn't want to experience that, certainly not purposefully.

Because of his decision to not choose a body for fucking this evening, Seraphina thought there was something wrong with him.

_”You have forgotten the joys of life!”_ she had insisted before Percival had left the great hall and come outside. _”Your life is nowadays all about death and it has made you forget what living is about. There once was a time when you were the life of any a feast I hosted, when you spent my feasts with an adoring goddess on each arm and one beautiful god or another riding your cock. What happened, Percival? Why did you change?”_

_“I grew up,”_ he had stated with pride, standing up with his legs apart in a confident stance, holding onto his belt. _“And frankly, I like myself better for it. If I were to meet my younger self, I might well punch him in the midriff out of pure exasperation.”_

Percival _did_ like himself better now, lonelier though he might have been. As a god in his prime, he was responsible, he was a dependable ruler. He took his duties seriously, was confident in his own skin. He was just as stubborn as he had always been, but having learnt from his mistakes, he was now less impulsive, more willing to think before acting.

Seraphina had preferred his younger self, he had been able to tell it from the sour look that had crossed her face.

With a sigh, Percival now looked up to make sure the Moon was still firmly attached to the canvas of the dark-blue sky, that the sky wasn’t about to collapse under the weight of all the twinkling stars, before he dared to step onto the paved road from between the columns. 

With a need to put some distance between himself and the great hall, he walked along the road until he came across a meadow. It was still a few hours till the sunrise, but dew had already gathered on the grass, on the flowers. There was no dew in the Underworld and Percival was fascinated by it, by the pearl-like water drops that clung to each straw and sleeping flower like they had made their home there.

Percival left the road and wandered aimlessly in the meadow, trampling down flowers under his boots without even noticing he was doing so. The dew made his boots gleam in the moonlight, it made the mountain air even fresher and he breathed it in, enjoying the purity of it all.

The further he walked, the higher the plants grew. Where there had been clovers in the immediate vicinity of the road, he was now making his way through valerian flowers, highest of which came all the way up to his waist. Fairies with silvery wings were dancing here and there above the sleeping flowers, their bodies naked and smooth, but when Percival approached, curious, they were quick to fly off towards a large cherry three in the distance.

The large cherry tree, growing in the distance, was flowering. With the Moon high above casting its pale light down on the meadow, the white flowers of the tree seemed to glow and the sight had Percival drawn to it: While all the other flowers in the meadow were now resting with no Sun there to coax them into waking, the flowers of the cherry tree were open and bright and so very beautiful, it was like the trunk itself was glowing with some internal light. Any a tree that could flower like that in the middle of the night, with no Sun there to guide it, would with no doubt thrive in the Underworld, under Percival’s care, and Percival wondered if he could find some of the tree’s seeds. He wouldn’t have minded growing a few cherry plums in the Underworld – the path to Mourning Fields was missing something and the trees just might give the path the touch it was now missing.

The chirping of crickets and the rustle of valerian flowers were the only sounds in the peaceful night, as Percival made his way towards the tree.

When he came close enough to the tree to smell the sweet scents of cherries, of the flowers, he noticed there was someone already there under the tree:

A god, slender and lithe, was dancing under the tree, surrounded by fairies who flew around him, dancing with him. There was no music, but the god had his eyes closed like he was listening to something intently anyway, like he could hear some form of music in the nature even if Percival didn’t. His flushed skin had a silvery tint to it in the moonlight, but the expression on his narrow face was one of contentment, of peace. Barefooted, he swayed and twirled, moved his arms, while white flowers fell from the tree, landing on him, landing all around him and the glowing fairies.

Enchanted, Percival could only stare, mouth suddenly dry. He hadn't expected to encounter such beauty when he had left the feast hall.

Like a Celtic mortal rather than a god of Mount Olympus, the dancing god was wearing brown wool breeches and a linen tunic with a knot trim around his narrow waist. His curls, a mix of gold and copper, were an unruly mess with leaves and cherry flowers on them like he had spent the whole day running about the meadow, the forests nearby, like he hadn’t ever even planned on participating in _The Godly Gathering_ most gods and goddesses wouldn’t have passed for anything.

Staring, admiring, in awe, Percival crept closer, closer, closer, all the more closer to the beautiful scene playing out before him. He stopped some four yards away, standing there watching for long enough to become so enchanted that he didn’t even notice when the god stopped dancing and came to a halt. He only came back to himself when the god slowly turned to his way and opened his eyes, when their gazes met over the flowers separating them.

"Oh," the god whispered, grabbing a blue cloak from the ground before taking a hasty step backwards to hide behind the trunk of the tree. He wrapped the cloak around his slender form and looked at Percival from behind the tree even as the fairies landed onto him, on his shoulders, on his hair, their glow making his skin look soft. "I didn't notice you."

The god’s eyes were large and very, very round, Percival noted, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He couldn’t tell their color and he almost took a step closer to see it better, when suddenly the idea that those round eyes would soon be filled with terror, _terror of Percival_ , had a sour taste filling Percival’s mouth. The second this god would realize who Percival was, he and his fairies would flee, terrified, just like Seraphina's guests had been doing the whole evening, and Percival was hit with the realization that he _did not_ want to see this lovely god – the god who had been dancing like something out of Percival’s sweetest fantasies – running away from him.

Percival tried to not make any sudden moves, he tried to appear as unthreatening as possible.

“I apologize - I didn't mean to startle you,” he said, carefully. "I was merely drawn in by your dancing. You looked very... beautiful."

The lovely god blinked.

"It was just a new spring dance I was teaching to my fairies," was his humble response.

His arms went around the tree as if of their own accord and he leant his cheek against it, looking suddenly quite shy with his head bent, with his eyes studying Percival from behind his golden hair.

“I have not seen you before,” was spoken softly in a rather Celtic accent and the flush of the god’s skin seemed to deepen. “Did you come from _The Godly Gathering_ for The Wishing Tree? If you want to speak to it, please don't mind my presence.”

“I did not come to speak to the tree, but your company is most certainly welcomed in any case,” Percival said, adding soon, hungrily, “May I ask your name?”

This one god he really did not want to scare away, Percival knew that with certainty, just as he knew that he was helpless to prevent that from happening – it was inevitable that the lovely god would flee in terror the moment he realized he was alone in the meadow with Graves, with Gravedigger, with the god of death, but at least Percival could perhaps learn his name before that was to happen, perhaps he would get to have a name to go with the beautiful memory.

“I’m Newt, the god of spring,” said the god, his gaze flickering from Percival’s face to the ground like it was an effort for him to maintain the eye contact. "What about you?”

Some of the fairies were again flying around the god, _Newt_ , as if hoping he would continue dancing with them, but Percival didn’t pay them any mind, his attention entirely on this lovely… Newt.

“My name is-“

Percival cleared his throat, hesitating.

So far Newt hadn’t seemed to recognize him as the god of death, so far he hadn’t known enough to get scared, but surely the mention of Percival’s name would change all that. When Newt learnt whom he was talking to, he would run off, horrified, and this moment they were now sharing would be broken.

Percival wasn’t yet ready for their meeting to come to an end.

“I’m Sebastian,” he therefore lied. “The god of-“ he glanced down at his attire- “boots. And kilts.”

He winced internally – he had never had much imagination.

"You're not wearing a tunic, Sebastian," observed Newt, eyeing Percival’s bare chest. "Why not?"

His voice was filled with curiosity, with a yearning to know, like he was earnestly puzzled by Percival's choice of clothing.

"I prefer not to," said Percival with a shrug, pleased to note that Newt was still studying his torso visibly fascinated. "I'm a god of boots and kilts. I'm not a god of tunics."

Newt kept on staring like he had never seen a bare chest before.

"If you like to, you can come and take a closer look," Percival dared to offer after a long silent moment.

The words had an immediate effect: Newt pushed himself off the tree trunk and walked closer, slowly, looking from Percival's chest up to his eyes, cautious but curious. The fairies that had landed on him scurried now up in the air and flew away one after another, as Newt gradually closed the distance between the two of them. He came to stand right in front of Percival and Percival didn't dare to move a muscle, wary to even breathe as to not scare him away.

Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Newt tilted his head to the side, his eyes round and wondering.

He looked so very innocent.

Gentle fingertips touched Percival’s chest, examining, trailing along one of the scars, before they came to rest on the left nipple. The red lips parted in a silent “oh” and Newt blinked once, twice, fast.

“I didn’t know other gods have these, too,” he said, sounding puzzled, stroking the pink circle like he wanted to study the feel of it. “I know I do, but I haven’t seen anyone else bare like this before, so I had thought I might be the only one. And they are so erect, too, the both of them. How curious.”

He placed his palms, dry and warm, on Percival’s pectoral muscles, prompting Percival to swallow hard. Newt continued his touching, curious and fascinated, apparently unaware of the effect all the stroking and caressing was having on Percival who was now clenching his fists to prevent them from grabbing for the oblivious god, from pushing him down and taking him there and then.

Their coupling _would_ be meaningful, Percival was sure of it, taking Newt would be beautiful. It would have his body thrumming with pleasure, his heart singing.

Percival might have suggested such a thing then, too, he might have asked whether Newt would be interested in coupling, he _might_ have - had there not have been a medallion with a silver dove on it hanging from Newt's neck.

The medallion with the silver dove on it was widely recognized among gods as the symbol for innocence. It was The Medallion of Innocence and the fact that Newt was wearing it meant that he had a guardian. It meant that he had a guardian who hadn’t yet set him free, it meant that Newt's guardian was sheltering him from the world, it meant that the guardian would strike down anyone who threatened Newt, anyone who dared to _make suggestions_ to Newt.

The medallion meant that Newt was off limits, as far as the guardian was concerned. The Medallion of Innocence was a warning of repercussions, a sign of possession, more so than anything else.

Newt wasn’t to be Touched without the guardian's approval.

The silvery surface of the medallion was smooth and warm in Percival’s hand from where it had been in contact with Newt’s body.

_At least get yourself a wife,_ Seraphina’s suggestion rang in Percival’s ears, as he stroke the silver dove with his thumb, studying Newt's freckled face. The eyes were blue-green, he could tell now that they stood close. _At least get yourself a wife._

_Get yourself a wife._

Percival didn’t particularly need a wife, the Underworld didn't need a queen. 

But perhaps he could take a wife anyway, it wouldn't hurt the Underworld to have a queen.

The mental image of Newt dancing in Percival's pomegranate garden was really quite pleasant, after all.

“Who is your guardian?” Percival asked, lowering the medallion gently back to its place on Newt’s linen-covered chest.

Newt was regarding him warily from behind his hair. He was holding onto the medallion tightly now that Percival had let go off it.

“The god of harvest. Theseus. My brother.”

Theseus, Percival mused, the god of harvest. The fierce god who had chosen to settle down in the lands of Celts after Grindelwald had fallen.

It had been a long while since the last time Percival had heard that name, Theseus, but he still recalled the bravery of the harvest god, he recalled his steadfast nature. They had met when the world had been young, they had spoken often then, out of necessity. Theseus had been among those who had fought against Grindelwald. Like Tina, he had been among those not wounded, among those who rose victorious after the dust had settled- Percival had given him Grindelwald’s left arm as a reward after the battles and they hadn’t met since.

Theseus hadn’t had a brother at the time, as far as Percival knew, but clearly one had come into existence since, one that was currently standing before Percival with his arms akimbo, giving Percival a rather sour look.

“Why do you ask about my guardian, god of boots and kilts?" Newt demanded, voice as suspicious as it was angry. "If you now tell me that you're making sure I'm Theseus' brother, if you now dare to tell me it was my brother who sent you here to _fetch me_ , I must ask you to leave me be. I told Theseus I wouldn’t want to go to _The Godly Gathering_ , he knows I’m uneasy in loud crowds, he knows I don’t like them. I told him I wasn’t going to go and he can’t make me, guardian or not. I refuse! He can wear his toga and get drunk if he likes to, but I want to stay here and wear the clothes that I actually like to wear.”

“Your brother didn’t send me,” assured Percival, delighted to see that there was some fire in Newt, a rebellious side to his innocence. “I came across you by chance, I promise. I saw the beauty of this Wishing Tree you spoke of and it made me wonder whether I would find some cherry plum seeds from here to take home to my garden.”

Newt’s suspicious look softened gradually, he seemed to believe what Percival had said.

"Cherry plum seeds, you said?" he mused, eyes twinkling like the stars above, all anger forgotten, as he took a hold of Percival’s hand.

Smiling without uttering a word, Newt led Percival under The Wishing Tree where they picked up plums containing the tree's seeds.

By the time Percival had a lap full of plums to take home, he had come to the decision that he had just met his future wife, the future queen of the Underworld - he would take the plums _and_ Newt home with him.

Now all he would have to do was to let his future brother-in-law, Theseus, to know of this. Surely it would be but a mere formality to get Theseus to agree to give his little brother to Percival, brothers-in-arms as they had once been.

Percival was already looking forward to throwing Newt's Medallion of Innocence into the River of Oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, the second chapter.
> 
> Thank you for all the kind, encouraging comments! If you'd like to read more, please do let me know so I'll have a reason to update.
> 
> edit:
> 
> Turns out that someone has been "saving" my fics on some Russian website without my permission. Apparently there's little I can do about this, although it's still unclear to me whether I can have my works removed from there or not. While I really don't mind it at all, if someone saves my fics on their computer for private use and while a few people have been given the permission to translate my fics, it's unpleasant to think that someone might continue copying my works on that website whether I like it or not - and they likely wouldn't have even told me they were doing this.
> 
> I understand that many people here have enjoyed my fics, but I am now considering not publishing anything more on this website since I don't want my fics posted on some Russian site for safekeeping as someone seems to be doing. So unless I can get my fics removed from that other site, I don't see many other options apart from stopping using this site to host my fics - this is not blackmail, mind you, I'm merely stating it as it is. The fics I've already published here will remain here and I will not remove them because I know many of you would miss them, but if I can't get that website to stop "saving" my fics, I will no longer feel comfortable with posting any new chapters here.
> 
> Honestly, I don't really know what to do. I love writing Gramander and I love sharing my works with the fandom, with you lot, but simultaneously I really dislike the way some Russian website is storing my works without my permission. I'd hate to stop sharing, but simultaneously I really, really dislike the idea that my works are stored elsewhere online despite of my wishes. If some Russian speaker knows how I could get my work removed from this site, please do tell me. http://fanfics.me/read2.php?id=183083&chapter=0
> 
> Otherwise, I'll... try to figure out some other way to solve this. I'm sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Gramander fics seem to have been removed from that Russian site, yay.
> 
> edit: Well, no. That didn't happen, it turns out. Only Plan G has been removed. Cannot Be Tamed is still there. http://fanfics.me/read2.php?id=183082&chapter=0 It's not okay.

They spent that night together, wandering in the sleeping meadow, hand in hand, the landscape all around them tinted silvery in the moonlight.

“Theseus only allows me to be here in the meadow until the sun has risen, but not a moment later,” said Newt, looking around wistfully, before bending down to smell a round leaf. He touched the leaf gently with a fingertip like wishing it a good night and then continued walking, pulling Percival along.

“The plants will tell him, if I refuse to obey. They always do.”

“Thankfully, we still have many moments before the sunrise.”

“Yes,” hummed Newt, coming to a halt in order to have Percival smell another round leaf (Percival did smell it, politely, and was rewarded with a bit of a smile), “and I certainly should not be complaining but enjoying the night, rare as the moments are when I’m allowed out all by myself without supervision. Theseus must have thought there would be no-one here in the meadow at night wandering around, he must have thought everyone would stay in the feast hall. Otherwise he never would have allowed me here by myself. He’s cautious like that.”

Theseus had forbidden many things, Percival gathered from Newt’s sour expression, and he couldn’t help his lip twitching in a joyless, silent snort: Soon Theseus would have no say when it came to _Percival’s wife_. What Theseus now forbade and what he allowed, those were things completely irrelevant to Percival, to the god of death, and since Newt was to be Percival’s, Theseus’ will would be of no matter to Newt neither, soon.

No god of harvest would ever be able to command the queen of the Underworld, _Percival_ wouldn’t _allow_ that. Newt would rule by Percival’s side and they would be happy together and Theseus would not be giving Newt commands of any kind.

“I must say, Sebastian,” Newt cut off his thoughts, “that I am more than glad that you decided to take a walk here just this night – I am not usually allowed to make friends on my own, but your company is wonderful, truly wonderful.”

“As is yours,” said Percival with satisfaction, holding Newt’s slender hand a little bit tighter. It was warm in his, surprisingly callused like Newt was used to hard work.

For once in his long life, Percival was content to simply follow, allowing Newt to pull him along, to show him one flower or another, one fairy or another. Even as Newt loved his flowers, it became obvious rather quickly that he was also completely taken by creatures of all kinds. Not only had he already befriended the fairies, he now proceeded to make friends with an owl, three mice and an entire army of butterflies, all the while holding Percival by the hand.

Newt was endlessly curious, eager for knowledge, for new experiences. He loved his flowers and his creatures – and his fascination with Percival’s chest seemed to only increase with each step they took together. Occasionally they even came to a halt just so Newt could study Percival’s bare torso, the skull hanging from his neck, and Percival truly didn’t mind that at all and allowed Newt to touch wherever he liked.

“Your attire is fascinating to me,” Newt explained, running a hand on the bare skin as he walked slowly around Percival for the third time like he wanted to study the torso from all angles. “I have never seen anything like it before. All gods and goddesses I know wear some kind of a toga.”

Newt glanced down at his linen tunic. His hand ran down Percival’s chest all the way down to the belt and Percival gritted his teeth to contain his growing arousal.

“Apart from me, that is, of course. Although these,” Newt tugged at the front of his tunic with the hand that wasn’t holding onto Percival’s belt, “aren’t actually my own clothes, these aren’t my godly attire. You see, when I’m away from my home meadow, the meadow of eternal spring back in the lands of the Celts, my brother only allows me to wear either a toga or clothes of mortals, and since I refuse – _refuse_ – to ever wear a toga, I have to wear clothes like these when out in the public as opposed to my godly attire. Comfortable as these are (and much preferable to a toga), they still aren’t mine, they are not… _my godly attire_.”

One’s godly attire was any a god and goddess’ great pride, created when they had been created, grown with them since childhood, and it was bewildering, to say the least, that Theseus would insist on his brother wearing mortal clothes rather than his godly attire. All gods and goddesses of Mount Olympus had some kind of a toga as their godly attire, but while Percival with his leather kilt and imposing belt was given wary glances by the toga-wearers, no-one had ever even hinted that he should wear something other than his own godly attire, that was how important one’s godly attire was recognized to be. To hear that Theseus – god of Mount Olympus though he might not have been – insisted on Newt wearing something other than his own godly attire, his great pride, was bewildering, frankly put it. It was unheard of.

“It’s because of oracles,” Newt sighed when Percival expressed his bewilderment. “Theseus keeps on saying that ‘oracles have warned him against it’, against strangers seeing me in my godly attire, and so he has forbidden me from wearing my own clothes where other gods and goddesses, those strangers to me, might see me. So don’t think badly of my brother, Sebastian. He does what he thinks is in my best interests, he loves me dearly, and he only forbids me from wearing my own clothes in public because oracles have convinced him that if I were ever to stand before a stranger in my own godly attire, something terrible would happen to me.”

Percival considered this even as Newt continued playing with his belt.

Oracles were rarely ever wrong, he knew this for a fact.

“Oracles have convinced him,” Newt went on, his voice absent-minded like his focus was now fully on the belt, “that if I were ever to stand before a stranger in my own godly attire, death would soon be upon me.”

Death would soon be upon Newt.

Death.

Upon Newt.

Oh.

Well.

Ah.

Percival scratched his neck – conscious of Newt’s curious gaze following the move of his arm, the contracting bicep – and looked away with a cough.

“You should be allowed to choose your own clothes,” he decided. Unlike Theseus, _he_ wouldn’t force Newt to wear anything Newt wouldn’t want to wear.

“I should,” Newt agreed firmly, “but what can you do. The last time I disobeyed my guardian, he forced me into an egg and it took a few millennia until I hatched. It was terribly dull and lonesome in there, in that egg, and although a hatchling’s perspective was interesting to experience for sure, I wouldn’t want to experience it again. Once was enough.”

“I’m sure it was uncomfortable, although I have never hatched,” said Percival, politely, daring to look at Newt again. “I created myself, after all.”

The green-blue eyes narrowed, squinting at him quizzically.

“You… created yourself. How is that even possible?”

“It is,” Percival declared stubbornly because that _was_ what had happened.

Whatever (rather considerable) part Grindelwald had had in creating him, that Percival refused to acknowledge, that he _had to_ keep from acknowledging so he wouldn’t end up releasing the evil god for purely sentimental reasons, for familial loyalty. Percival _had to_ deny himself a father in order to protect the world, and the mother he had once had his father had wiped out of existence when Percival had still been but a toddler – he couldn’t even remember the color of her eyes (although Grindelwald had told him, many times, that they had been “the disgusting color of deer urine”).

Newt was still studying him closely.

“I don’t believe you,” he eventually decided, but his voice was confiding more so than accusing, “but I understand that it is a rather private matter, so I won’t pry any further.”

Percival wanted to ask Newt how Newt had come into existence, but it would have been indeed a rather personal question, married though they soon would be, and so he swallowed the question long before it could reach his lips.

“I do have another question, though,” Newt went on, eyes bright even in the moonlight, “and it shouldn’t be nearly as personal and private.”

“What might that question be?”

“I wonder whether or not you have a seeder like I do.”

Seeder? Percival blinked.

He hadn’t heard any part of male genitalia called that before, but he could nevertheless gather what Newt meant simply by noticing the way Newt kept on glancing down at his groin, the way Newt’s fingers were toying with the belt like he wished to unbuckle it.

“I do,” Percival’s voice came out rougher than he had intended, “although I call it a penis, not a seeder.”

“A penis,” Newt repeated slowly, frowning like he was trying to memorize the word. “Might I see your… penis?”

Newt’s question was not flirtatious, he sounded simply curious like someone else might have been of the origins of the cosmos itself, but it was nevertheless enough to have Percival’s world narrowing entirely on him.

“You would like to see my penis?”

Newt went on and – he _went on and smiled at Percival_ , polite as anything.

“Yes, please. That would be appreciated.”

Percival gave the Medallion of Innocence a glance and promptly decided that Theseus wasn’t there and that his opinions therefore didn’t matter all that much.

“Please,” Newt said again, and Percival was more than glad to release his "seeder" from where it was confined under his kilt in his small pants.

While Newt studied the penis, eyes wide, with a dropped jaw, Percival let his eyes rake over Newt’s lithe form, the curly hair, appraising, conjuring up various mental images of Newt wearing different kinds of godly attires, varying from the loin clothes of certain southern gods to the furry attires of some of the northern gods, ending up with Newt standing before him nude, ready and eager to be claimed and taken, with only a flower tucked behind his ear.

Newt’s gasp cut into Percival’s thoughts and he saw Newt’s hand shooting forward to point at the bared groin.

“It- it twitched!”

Percival looked down at his penis standing erect. He knew he was well endowed, even for a god – while many gods and goddesses despised him to the point of loathing, they had still always been eager to fall on his dick, to ride it and find their pleasure on it – and he hoped that Newt, too, liked what he was seeing.

They would otherwise need to find a way around it in their marital bed.

“It does that when I think of something particularly pleasurable.”

Having explained as much, Percival wrapped his hand around the organ and rubbed, slowly, a few times, aware of Newt’s eyes following each tug with intent, with curiosity.

The Medallion of Innocence gleamed in the moonlight accusingly. It looked like a staring eye.

Percival sighed, resigned, and tucked himself back in, letting his kilt fall down to cover him, ignoring Newt’s whine of protest.

They spent the rest of the night walking around the meadow, Newt asking questions of Percival’s penis, while Percival asked about Newt’s godly attire – in vain, since Newt wouldn’t answer any of his questions, only replacing his answers with questions of his own.

When the first rays of the sun rose from behind Mount Olympus, Newt turned to Percival, still holding onto his hand. They smiled at each other, one shyer than the other.

“Thank you, Sebastian,” said Newt softly, casting his gaze down. “I have had such an enjoyable night. I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed myself like this – and not only because I rarely ever get to be out without supervision.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Percival’s voice came out husky. He cleared his throat and caressed the warm palm with his callused thumb. 

Newt’s curls looked like honey in the first rays of the morning. The wind, gentle and warm, was playing with them – Percival had never before been envious of the god of wind.

With a sigh, Newt raised his eyes from the ground, looking towards the rising sun with a wistful look on his freckled face.

“I must go soon,” his voice was filled with reluctance and regret. “Theseus said I am allowed to be here in the meadow until the sun has risen, not a moment later. The plants will tell him, if I refuse to obey.”

Unwilling to resist the urge, Percival brought Newt’s hand up to his lips and gave the slender fingers a kiss, lingering albeit barely more than a bit of a peck. Pink spots immediately grew on Newt’s cheeks, his gaze fixed on a spot on Percival’s chest.

“Until next time, then, lovely Newt.”

“T-Take care, Sebastian.”

* * *

Percival barged into the feast hall, too eager to make Newt his wife to waste time with things such as opening doors carefully. The sound of doors banging against the walls had several sleeping gods and goddesses startling awake all around the hall, but Percival ignored the majority of them, only seeking for one particular god.

He saw the familiar bald head, the bearded face, the tall form but after a few moments of searching. It might have been quite a while since they had last talked to each other, but Percival still recognized Theseus – the god of harvest hadn’t changed much.

Theseus was lying on his back under a pile of blankets and pillows and empty tankards, sperm and wine and drool staining the fabrics. Determined, Percival made his way toward the god, stepping onto the few gods and goddesses too slow (or too unconscious) to move out of his path in time.

“Theseus!” his voice boomed the moment he was standing over the sleeping figure. “It is time for you to WAKE UP, brother-in-arms. I come with urgent business.”

Due to his fast reflexes, Theseus, ever the warrior, was sitting up half covered in pillows and blankets before he had even managed to open his eyes. There was an ambiguous stain on his forehead – Percival did not care to think of its origins.

“What is it?” Theseus’ deep voice was hoarse with sleep. He was covering his squinted eyes with one hand like the sunlight was hurting his head, scratching his chest with the other. “And please don’t shout. I did drink some last night.”

Percival hooked his fingers around his belt and stood over his future brother-in-law in as confident a stance as he could manage. He was there with a purpose and it needed to show.

“I have come to ask for Newt’s hand in marriage,” he went straight to the point, never one to waste time.

Theseus stared at him like he couldn’t quite fathom what Percival had just said.

The pillows moved and a head of a pretty blonde goddess appeared from behind them. With a yawn, she leant her head on Theseus’ shoulder, giving it a wet kiss, her complicated hairdo in a complete disarray.

“Who’s Newt?” she asked, yawning again – her closed eyes, her obliviousness, were probably the only reason why she wasn’t startled to find the god of death standing over her the first thing in the morning.

Percival tapped his fingers against his thigh, suddenly nervous. If he had expected Theseus to jump up to his feet to welcome him to the family, that clearly didn’t seem to be happening, and if anything, Theseus now looked like he had just tasted something terribly sour.

“He would not be lacking anything,” Percival went on, clearing his throat. “I would give my all to make him happy. He is truly wonderful, I would care for him like he deserves. He would rule by my side, his status among gods would be high. He would live in my palace, he could roam freely in my garden. What is mine would also be his.”

It was quite an offer – Percival was the wealthiest of gods with all the minerals found in the Underworld.

Theseus only had one eye open and he was holding tightly onto his forehead. There was a grimace on his face like he was in pain, but he kept on squinting up at Percival like he couldn’t quite believe that _this_ was the moment the two of them would have a conversation after several thousands of millennia filled with mutual silence.

The pillows moved again and this time a young god, dark-haired, appeared from beneath them, leaning his head on Theseus’ other shoulder, rubbing his cheek against Theseus’ skin with a purr. The god and the goddess stroked Theseus’ chest, and it exasperated Percival quite a lot that Theseus would feel free to have his pleasures with them while his brother wasn’t even allowed to wear his own godly attire, that Theseus would feel content with two lovers while his brother had to wear the Medallion of Innocence, while Newt hadn’t seen another god’s penis.

Until Percival had shown him one, that was.

“What is he talking about, darling?” asked the young dark god, stroking Theseus – like the goddess’, his eyes, too, were closed. “Sounds like someone drank _a little too much_ last night, if they're now proposing to you...”

Theseus still hadn’t said a word and this really wasn’t going as well as Percival had expected it to go.

“If it hasn’t yet become clear, I will now make an official announcement as the god of death: I would like to marry Newt,” he therefore repeated, just in case Theseus hadn’t heard him properly the first time. “I would like to make your brother my wife, I would like to make him the queen of the Underworld.”

The silence that followed the statement was filled with ice. Theseus’ two lovers had frozen to the spot like the icy silence had been enough to freeze them over, but – having snapped their eyes open at the mention of “the Underworld” – they were now crawling away from Theseus – or rather, from Percival, visibly frightened to open their eyes only to see the god of death looming over them.

Theseus’ two lovers weren’t even the only ones making a hasty, more or less subtle retreat – all those not unconscious were now hurrying to the open front door, each casting terrified glances over their shoulder in Percival’s direction.

Percival repressed a sigh, his focus fully on Theseus, hoping for approval, ready to shake hands with his brother-in-arms turned into brother-in-law.

Slowly, without uttering a word, Theseus got up to his feet, adjusting his rumpled toga as he did so. He stepped closer until Percival could smell the wine in his breath, see the white of his eyes.

Feel the cold, sharp point of the dagger Theseus was pressing against his bare belly.

When Theseus spoke, it was not to welcome Percival into family. Instead, he said,

“My brother is not for you, Percival.”

With a voice as cold as eternal winter.

“I will not have my baby brother buried underground,” was said with finality. “He belongs in sunlight, not buried among corpses for all eternity.”

“The Underworld is more beautiful than you might believe,” Percival defended his realm, never one to give up because of a dagger pressed against his belly. “You are very much welcome to visit, Theseus. We could go there before the marriage, you and I, and you could inspect the palace, if you so would like. If there would be something you would wish to see changed, perhaps we could come to an agreement over such a thing. Newt would obviously be welcome to change anything he would like to as well, seeing as he would rule by my side and as his word would be only second to mine.”

The dagger was pressed against his belly more firmly. Percival glanced down at it before meeting the furious green eyes glowering at him.

“You cannot have him, _Gravedigger_ ,” Theseus emphasized each word. “I am only going to give you this one warning – keep away from my brother. He is not for you.”

* * *

Percival asked Seraphina, as the high goddess, to talk to Theseus.

“Theseus will never agree to the marriage,” she said with a sigh, avoiding his gaze. “I know he won’t and you should just give up before anything irreversible happens.”

When it became obvious that Percival wouldn’t give up, she eventually agreed, with great reluctance, to at least try to negotiate the marriage on his behalf.

Only to come back running a few minutes later with a bleeding jugular.

“Now my toga is all bloody,” she snapped at Percival like it had been him stabbing her. “When I suggested that you get yourself a wife, Percival, I didn’t expect you to go and choose _Theseus’ little treasure!_ No god should be mad enough to go after him – Theseus will _never_ give Newt to anyone. I should know!”

Swearing like any a northern goddess, she focused on healing herself with one hand while pointing at the door with the other, all the while glaring at Percival.

* * *

It took a few hours to find Newt, but eventually Percival did find him, although he had to go all the way to the Celtic lands to do so – Theseus had apparently wasted no time in getting his brother far away from Percival.

It was inconsiderate, very much so, but fortunately there was no place Death could not reach, no place for Theseus to hide his brother that Percival wouldn’t eventually find.

When Percival arrived to the meadow of eternal spring, Newt was tending to dandelions while Theseus was standing nearby with his back to Newt, looking over towards the tree line. Theseus had a spear in his hand, an axe in the other, a crossbow hanging from his back.

He looked ready for a battle.

Percival had, fortunately, decided to approach the meadow from beneath the ground and therefore neither Newt nor Theseus noticed his presence when he climbed up silently, careful to not startle even a flower with his presence.

Once above ground, Percival looked around with caution. He took in Theseus guarding his little brother’s safety, took in Newt tending to his flowers, noticed that Newt was- that Newt was-

That Newt –

was wearing his godly attire.

On his honey curls, Newt had a crown made of colorful flowers. A sleeveless chiton came all the way down to his ankles, revealing only his toes and ankles brown with dirt. The fabric was slightly translucent, as was the long flowery trail on the back of the garment – it reminded Percival of melting streams, of warm weather, of _spring_.

If Newt had been terribly pretty in the clothes of mortals, he was now breathtakingly beautiful, enough so that it brought Percival to a momentary halt, a halt long enough that it might have cost Percival his head had Theseus happened to turn around just then to see him standing there behind Newt’s kneeling form.

As it happened, Theseus didn’t turn around.

Percival didn’t waste any time after his initial moment of stunned awe. Instead, he was quick to gesture with his hand to have ropes appear around Newt, to have them bind the slender body in a heartbeat. Before Newt had the time to even gasp or to cry out or to alert his brother in any way, Percival was already standing flush to his back, a hand covering his mouth.

With the Dagger of Doom, Percival cut the Medallion of Innocence off and let it drop onto the ground, glad to see it go. Never again would the Medallion stare at him like an accusing eye.

Seething the dagger, holding onto Newt’s trashing body as gently but firmly as he could, Percival opened a hole in the ground with a glance and jumped then into it with Newt in his arms – right onto the back of a carb monster, Norrah, waiting for him underground lighting up the hole with its natural light.

The ground closed behind them the deeper they went and Percival, triumphant, hugged Newt to his chest even as Norrah hurried deep, deep down, obeying Percival’s orders to the letter.

“Don’t be scared, Newt,” Percival said, removing his hand from Newt’s mouth now that they were deep enough that Theseus wouldn’t be able to hear Newt’s cries. “You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Newt stopped trashing, apparently recognizing Percival’s voice. Slowly, he twisted his neck to look over his shoulder. His eyes were very round when their gazes met, but then he frowned, huffed in audible annoyance and snapped his head forward with the clear intention of looking pointedly away from Percival.

“I am going to assume that you are not a god of boots and kilts,” he sounded positively exasperated. “Seeing as you have just kidnapped me from my own meadow, I bet it’s you my brother has been arming himself against for the past two hours.”

“Quite likely.”

“Is your name even Sebastian?”

“No.”

“Well, whoever you are in all actuality, I will let you know that I _do not appreciate_ being kidnapped. This is terribly inconvenient and bothersome. I was just about to go tend to my roses! They require much care, I will let you know, and they might suffer during my absence.”

“I’m sorry,” Percival apologized sincerely. “I would have liked to go about this in a more traditional manner, but your brother was so unreasonable that I had to take the matters into my own hands. But do not worry, Newt – it will all turn out for the best, you’ll see.“

“I sincerely doubt that,” Newt said with a huff. “You cut my Medallion off, after all, and Theseus _will_ get mad about that, rest assured. He’s always insisting that I must wear it at all times.”

“You’ll never wear it again.”

The prospect filled Percival with kiddy mirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it always so late when I update my fics? The mysteries of life!
> 
> Do let me know, if you'd like to read more or if you liked the chapter. :)
> 
> Thank you for all the support so far!


	4. Chapter 4

“Put me down,” demanded Newt when they climbed off Norrah and Percival hoisted him up on his shoulder without preamble. “I didn’t grow feet just so my kidnapper could completely ignore them and forbid me from using them!”

“I am not ignoring your lovely feet – rather, I am trying to protect them.” To emphasize his point, Percival gave the bare soles an appreciative caress with the hand that wasn’t holding Newt steady up on his shoulder. “The ground here is covered in poison, lethal to mortals and unbearably painful to any an immortal not wearing protective footwear as I am. Seeing as your feet are bare, I must carry you so you won’t get the poison on your soles.”

As Norrah scuttled away in the shadows, Newt must have noticed the poisonous red moss on the ground all around them, or at least he didn’t further object to being carried, choosing instead to remain silent apart from the occasional indignant huffs.

The silence grew heavy and pregnant, the air tense between them. It was terribly awkward, carrying Newt across the Fields of Agony in such uncomfortable silence, and Percival, never particularly talkative, now wracked his brain for something to say to break the silence or to at least turn it into a comfortable one. Only, as always happened, his words failed him when he needed them the most and he couldn’t come up with a single thing to say.

In order to reassure Newt and to show him that all would be well sooner rather than later, Percival let his free hand hold onto Newt’s slender thigh higher than was proper. The skin was warm through the thin fabric and the firm muscles gave the occasional twitch when Newt tried to move. Unable to resist the urge, Percival placed a hand on one of the buttocks, enjoying the feel of it bouncing with each of his strides. Newt – brought up confined as he seemingly had been – didn’t oppose to the unsubtle groping, possibly not even quite understanding that Percival had just invaded a rather private area.

Percival, somewhat guilty though he felt for not proceeding about things formally and as was proper, could hardly wait to sink himself deep into the inviting ass. Wrapping the lean thighs around his waist would feel _amazing_ and that thought alone was enough to urge him to walk faster, to prompt him into jogging.

“Why are you running?” Newt sounded startled and his muscles moved against Percival’s bare upper body, Percival could feel him twisting on his shoulder as if to see better. “Are we being followed? Is it Theseus?”

“No,” Percival managed from his growing arousal. “I’m running because I’m eager to take you home. And although Theseus is, without a doubt, already after us, it will take him a long time to reach us. By the time he even gets underground, we will already be safely at the palace by the River of Oblivion. Your brother can never reach us there.”

* * *

The Garden of Grief had tears hanging from the plants. For every tear a mortal shed for a perished loved one, a thousand appeared in the Garden of Grief and therefore it was no surprise the Garden was verdant, lush with vegetation, watered by rivulets of tears.

It was beautiful there, if one could ignore the salty smell of tears, the constant soft sounds of weeping and the wind-like howls of sorrow coming from the treetops, echoing the mortal grief above ground.

“What is this place?” Newt’s voice was hushed, but it was nevertheless a relief to have the silence broken and so Percival hurried to speak,

“The Garden of Grief. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Newt didn’t answer.

The ground was no longer covered in poison, and Percival, swallowing down the disappointment he felt for the way Newt had fallen silent again, rinsed the poison off his boots in one of the tear ponds. Then he lowered Newt down onto the ground and cut the bindings off him – he hoped Newt appreciated the gesture.

Since they would be married soon, Percival dared to now take the liberty of holding Newt’s hand – only for Newt to snatch his hand back and to give Percival a bit of a glower from behind his golden hair, adjusting his flower crown.

“I don’t hold hands with people I’m angry with.”

Which was, admittedly, fair enough.

Raising his hands in surrender, Percival sighed to himself, resigned.

* * *

Abernathy didn’t seem happy to see Newt, but then again, he never seemed happy, period, and that was the only reason why Percival wasn’t overly displeased with him and merely gave him an oral reprimand for not welcoming the new queen properly.

“I apologize,” said Abernathy emotionlessly from where he was already sitting in his boat, ready to oar it to the other side of the river, to the path leading to the Gate. “I was not aware this was a joyful occasion. Please, sire, do let me rectify the situation.”

Receiving a nod of permission from Percival, Abernathy raised a hand and gave Newt a slow wave. His lips twitched like he was attempting to smile, although without much success.

For someone whose entire existence revolved around aiding mortals with crossing the river by physically oaring them across it, Abernathy didn’t have much muscle in his arms. They were bony and pale and the worn rags he wore didn’t do much to cover this fact.

Rather miserly and careful with wealth as he was, Abernathy had for several millennia outright refused to get himself a new outfit, insisting there was nothing wrong with “the current one”, and since he was at least careful to keep it clean, Percival hadn’t cared to press the point. Abernathy was, after all, happier with all the coins he got from the souls of mortals than he ever would have been with any a new attire. And to Percival, the happiness of the beings under his rule was important.

He was quick to explain this to Newt to ensure Newt was aware that Percival was in no way forcing Abernathy to wear rags.

It turned out, though, that Newt didn’t seem to much care about Abernathy’s clothes. He wasn’t even looking in Abernathy’s way but was, instead, regarding the souls lingering around the dock with a frown marring his pretty features.

On this side of the river, souls of mortals were but shapeless bright lights and it wouldn’t be until they entered the Gate of the Underworld that they would regain a form similar to their perished body. The new form the soul would get wasn’t one of blood and flesh but one of nature itself, and while it could function in the Underworld like the mortals were used to their bodies functioning, the form would disappear the moment the soul stepped out of the Gate and then the soul would once more be nothing but bright light kept barely together by the forces of the cosmos.

The new form of each soul was tied to the Underworld and it was something each soul just had to come to accept.

While the souls were little else but bright shapeless lights on this side of the river, on the side closer to the mortal world, Newt seemed to still understand that they were individual beings, for he asked, voice hushed, ”Who are they?”

 _Who_ are they, Percival noted. Not _what_.

He puffed out his chest. His bride was clearly extraordinarily perceptive.

“They are souls of mortals. Abernathy, explain to your new queen.”

“Yes, sire,” Abernathy was quick to acknowledge, although his voice remained as impassive and emotionless as his eyes stayed sharp. “When a mortal’s body ceases to exist – when it no longer functions resulting in its death – the soul of the mortal separates from the perished body and flies instinctively down here to continue to exist.”

“And, uh-” Newt licked his lips, finally turning away from the souls in order to study Percival and Abernathy warily, “where exactly is… _’here’_?”

Abernathy gave Newt a dubious look, glancing questioningly at Percival who gave a shrug and motioned for Abernathy to continue, which was what he did too,

“We are in the Underworld, my queen. On the bank of the River of Despair, to be precise. This is where all the souls initially come, although most souls would eventually like to get to the heart of the kingdom and to enter through the Gate. I _willingly and unselfishly_ help any a soul across the river – for as long as they can compensate by giving me a coin or two. If they can’t pay, they can try to find their own way across.”

Abernathy was fond of his coins indeed, but Percival could hardly blame him for it: Abernathy had once been a dragon, living in a castle he had filled with gold and mortal princesses as dragons were to do. One day, Percival had _purely accidentally_ slayed him while practicing sword fighting and he had honestly felt so bad about it that he had allowed Abernathy to stay on the river in the form of a human to collect the coins from mortals since that was what he most loved doing.

It eased things, besides, to have someone rowing the souls across the river. It would have otherwise gotten needlessly crowded on the riverbank since the souls weren’t capable of flying or swimming across. 

Wringing his hands, Newt looked distraught. Percival couldn’t tell whether it was because of their being in the Underworld or because he felt sorry for the coinless mortals Abernathy refused to help, or, possibly, because of both of the reasons, but whatever the reason, Percival in any case much preferred it when Newt’s eyes shone with joy rather than with unshed tears.

Wordlessly, he lifted an unresisting Newt up on his arms and handed him over to Abernathy who positioned Newt on the front of the boat. The boat rocked when Percival stepped aboard, but Abernathy was quick to steady it, complete control as he had over it.

“Wait!” Newt cried when Abernathy was just about to push the boat off the dock. “Wait.”

Imploring eyes turned to Percival, pleading.

“You haven’t yet introduced yourself as who you really are, but I am inclined to believe I know your name nevertheless,” Newt’s words were soft, he spoke with his head bent, but the blue eyes never looked away from Percival’s dark ones, a struggle though it seemed to be for him to maintain eye contact. “So, please, _god of death_ , you have kidnapped me and taken me from my home, so at least allow me to have one of the coinless mortals to join me in the boat, to keep me company. Let me help at least one coinless soul to go across.”

Newt neither _looked_ nor _sounded_ scared, despite of being aware of Percival's true identity as the god of death, but he was obviously wary, cautious, at the very least.

Percival frowned and looked down at his fingernails to hide the emotion in his gaze. He didn't want Newt to be wary of him. He wanted Newt to feel comfortable around him, at ease. While it was hurtful to hear that Newt would desire the company of others rather than that of Percival's, it was nonetheless _touching_ that Newt cared enough of the coinless souls to want to plead for at least one to get on board.

“Very well,” was what Percival ended up saying. “If it will help you to adjust to your new home, lovely Newt, you may choose a mortal soul to keep you company. Just the one, mind you. You have me, in the addition, and you can make friends with the Arae at the palace. Mortals must otherwise be left in peace so they can rest properly for as long as they want.”

There was an audible hitch in Newt’s breath at the words “new home”. Percival’s frown deepened. Something twisted painfully in his chest.

“Do choose your mortal, then,” he said softly, adding before Abernathy had a chance to protest, “I’ll pay a gold coin on the soul’s behalf, Abernathy. This once.”

It took a while and quite a lot of hand wringing, but eventually Newt chose one of the bright shapeless souls on the dock and Abernathy allowed the soul to come aboard. The soul remained silent on the back of the boat, but Newt studied it so fondly, with such visible relief, that Percival couldn’t help but be enamored - though there was also an unfamiliar sting of jealousy.

Suddenly possessive, he tried to twine his arm around Newt’s shoulders – but his arm was shrugged off with determination before it had barely even landed.

As Abernathy rowed and the water gave the occasional splash where an oar hit against it, Percival looked into the dark depths, sad.

Newt was still angry with him.

He didn’t like it.

* * *

With the bright soul hovering constantly behind them in an annoyingly enthusiastic manner like it was _actually excited to be in their presence_ , Percival led Newt along the path towards the Gate. Newt stared at his feet the entire time, refusing stubbornly to look at Percival, occasionally muttering things about being “angry about being stolen to be a bride” and that Percival should have “asked instead – I would have taken it better.”

When they approached the Gate, Cerberus seemed to sense them. It stood up on its four legs, the tail wagging furiously, and all three heads began to bark, ecstatic to have their master returning home. 

Where Newt had been staring at his feet in a sulk but a second before, he now came to an abrupt halt. His gaze snapped up to Cerberus and the blue eyes widened. Newt’s jaw dropped with a gasp.

“Fear not,” Percival hurried to say, stepping forward so he was standing between Newt and Cerberus. “Cerberus won’t harm you. It’s really a kind, loyal dog when you get to know him.”

“A- a _th-three-headed dog?_ ” Newt gasped. “What most people would call a monster, you call loyal and kind, you even trust it to guard the Gate to your kingdom?”

“Yes, but please don’t be afraid. I promise Cerberus won’t harm you. It’s a good dog, even a playful one. Look, I’ll show you!”

To demonstrate his words, Percival quickly - somewhat desperately as to not cause Newt to be any more wary than he already was- took the chain hanging from his neck off. He approached Cerberus, rattling the python skull on the chain. All three heads instantly turned their focus on the skull, Cerberus let out high little whines, the tail wagging so quickly it was causing a bit of an air current.

“Look here, little one. Look what I've got!”

Percival swayed the skull on the chain. Then, with one quick move, he threw it quickly up in the air towards Cerberus. The three heads shot towards the skull and a bit of a play fight resulted about which would get to return it to Percival.

Afterwards, Percival patted all three heads, praising and thanking them equally for returning the skull and the chain.

Newt had inched closer and was now standing right beside Percival, staring up at Cerberus with- with _awe_ written all over his face.

Percival’s heart filled with something warm and pleasant, he couldn’t look away from the eyes shining with wonder. Newt was truly completely taken by creatures of all kinds, it was obvious, and Percival wanted very much to kiss him.

But couldn’t because Newt was still mad at him.

"Ever seen a dog like mine before?" Percival still dared to ask. "What do you think?"

“Magnificent,” Newt’s voice was breathless. “He’s _magnificent_. I have never seen anyone like him, truly. May I go closer?”

“You may even pet Cerberus, if you like.”

Much to Percival's surprise, Newt liked - apart from Percival, he was the first god ever to pet Cerberus - and after the initial wariness, it became obvious that Cerberus liked being petted by Newt just as much as Newt liked petting it. With both Newt and Cerberus thus occupied, Percival made sure there was still fresh meat in Cerberus’ three bowls – it appeared Tina had, this time, indeed remembered to feed all three heads.

The mortal’s soul lingered a respectful distance away, apparently not as enthusiastic about Cerberus as Newt was, but Percival could hardly judge the soul for that. Most beings gave Cerberus a wide berth, after all, and either Newt truly was phenomenal with creatures or he just didn't know any better because of his shielded upbringing.

After the few hours they spent with Cerberus due to Newt’s reluctance to leave it, Percival began to lead them towards his palace, conscious of the way Theseus was likely already after them. It was better to get Newt to the safety of his kingdom’s heart where no being could come without Percival’s permission.

This time when he reached for Newt’s hand, Newt didn’t pull away - and Percival felt like soaring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was supposed to be longer, but if I don't update now, I might never get around to it.
> 
> I made changes with Tina and Queenie's roles here because it felt odd, to put it frankly, to not have Tina working for Percival.
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos&comments! They keep me writing. Literally. If it wasn't for them (for you, really), I'd lost motivation long ago. So if you'd still like to read more, do let me know. It's the comments that keep my fingers typing. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! They are what kept me determined to continue this fic, a while it though took me to get back to it.

The mortal wouldn’t stop talking.

The moment he had received his sturdy new form, he had introduced himself as “Jacob”, and from then on there had been a constant litany of words, most of them addressed to Newt once it became clear Percival wasn’t inclined to participate in the conversation.

“I was on my way to Athens from Oia to sell my breads and pastries,” Jacob was currently explaining, holding Newt’s attention just as well as Percival wasn’t despite of holding him securely by the hand. “I’m a baker, you see, and a good one at that, but unfortunately a storm surprised me and I ended up drowning, can you believe? Anyway, with my body somewhere deep in the sea, no-one could give me a proper funeral and that’s why I didn’t have a coin on me when I arrived to the River of Despair – rather awkward, wouldn’t you say?”

Newt seemed enthralled by Jacob, and the likely case was he had never talked to a mortal before, sheltered as he had grown up. He now hurried to give Jacob a sympathetic look from behind his fringe.

“I’m sorry for your death.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right!” and Jacob sounded all right, too, as he gave Percival a wide grin. Like most mortals, even if he had once been terrified of the god of death, Graves, he wasn’t afraid of Percival now that they came face to face in the Underworld – death was no longer a thing to be frightened of, the king of the Underworld was now a protector, not a monster.

“I think I might actually prefer it down here for as long as I won’t get thrown into any fiery pits. I didn’t have any family up there among the living, and I was very much in debt, so dying was almost a relief, although it’s a terrible pity my lovely breads and pastries drowned with me. All the work I put in them, now wasted!”

“I’ll send a word to Poseidon and ask him to enjoy the goods.”

The grateful looks he was given by both Newt and Jacob were certainly worth the promise.

Percival held Newt’s hand a little tighter, rubbing his thumb along the warm skin.

The hand would feel wonderful on his body, on his organ.

Having entered the gate some hours earlier, the three of them were now fast approaching the palace by the River of Oblivion. They walked along the river bank, the stream pitch black and silent. The Swan, the only bright spot in the river, swam peacefully towards them, and Newt wanted to stop to admire it, and so they did.

“You must avoid touching the water,” warned Percival. “It’s called the River of Oblivion for a reason – the water affects your memory, if you step in it or drink it.”

Newt was quick to step back from where his bare toes had almost been lapped at by the waves, but Jacob regarded the black stream with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Many mortals would give a lot for a drop of water that would help them to forget,” he mused, rubbing his moustache. “What a mercy it would be for them...”

Percival thought of the horrified children, arriving to his kingdom every once in a while, who wouldn’t stop crying until his Arae walked them to the stream to drink. The children who had died in the hands of adults who had used their small bodies, who had torn them from inside out, who had found their pleasure in tormenting the children to death.

“Indeed,” he had to agree, a heavy weight on his heart and shoulders, for once feeling all the millennia catching up with him. “Some of the souls come to the river voluntarily to forget one horror or another from their life above ground. The Swan helps them to choose the particular memories to forget, so they don’t need to forget everything. The Swan grants them mercy and peace where I cannot.”

By now, the Swan had swum close enough to touch like she always did when someone came to stand on the bank.

“No, little one,” Percival soothed her, “we are not here to forget. My new queen just wanted to stop to admire you, beautiful as you are.”

The Swan seemed content with the explanation, inclining her long neck elegantly, and swam further away, peaceful as ever.

“ _New_ queen?” Jacob startled once the Swan was but a distant white spot, eyes shooting towards Newt. “I hadn’t realized you had only recently gotten married – congratulations!”

Newt stiffened, but didn’t remove his hand from Percival’s grasp.

“We are not married.”

“Yet,” said Percival, pulling Newt’s hand to his bare chest and covering it with his own. “I only recently stole Newt to be my queen, so we haven’t _yet_ had the time for the ceremonies.”

“Oh,” Jacob blinked. “Uh. I don’t pretend to understand the way of gods, a mere mortal as I am. But. Congratulations, again?”

“There is nothing ‘mere’ about you,” Newt scolded him timidly. “You are quite amazing, a true wonder. Mortals are fascinating.”

Never before had the god of death been jealous of a mortal baker, but now he was, enough so that he pulled Newt closer to his side, possessive, but neither Newt nor Jacob seemed to pay that any mind, talking about life of mortals as they again were.

* * *

The white marble of his palace radiated its own light, a great contrast to the blackness of the River of Oblivion, and the glow was enough to have the garden around the palace to be verdant, green with pomegranate trees, blooming with flowers. The sight was beautiful enough to have Newt fall silent, and even Jacob stopped talking, looking around with wide eyes.

“Welcome home, my love,” Percival raised Newt’s hand up to his lips and gave the back of it a kiss. “This is the place where we will spend an eternity together, where I will worship you and your body, where you will rule by my side as my respected queen.”

Newt snatched his hand back.

“I’ll have you remember, god of death, that I haven’t yet said yes.”

Even as Newt put several steps between the two of them and turned his back pointedly to Percival, Percival couldn’t help the wide grin from spreading on his face.

 _Yet_. Newt had said, “ _yet_ ”.

* * *

As Jacob was attracted to females – a fact easy for a god to sense – he posed no threat to neither Newt nor Percival’s wish to make Newt his, and therefore he was as safe company as company could possibly get. After Mino, Radus and Acus, the Three Judges, found little to hold against Jacob, Percival decided to let him stay at the palace to keep Newt company. He wanted to help Newt to settle in, after all, and the company of the mortal was clearly doing just that.

“He lets me stay _at the palace_?” Jacob was whispering to Newt, sounding incredulous. “At _his palace?_ ”

“It would appear so, yes,” Newt, too, was whispering, unaware that there was no whisper so silent in the Underworld that the king could not hear it if he wanted to. “Now you can tell me more of your life as a mortal.”

“That’s a terribly boring subject, but sure.”

A beat of silence, then, “…at the palace, though? I’m glad I drowned!”

* * *

The feast in honor of the new queen was an event to be remembered. The Arae had set tables in the palace’s feast hall for all souls not held in the deep abyss of Tartarus, and Newt sat on the dais with Percival, on his left, while the merriment went on around them. Musically inclined souls were playing cheery tunes with their instruments, while some souls danced, and the Arae brought more and more food and wine for everyone to enjoy.

Jacob had been placed at the foot of the dais at the table nearest to them, and his laughter echoed in the feast hall even above the music and the general chatter. His face was starting to turn pink from all the wine he had drunk, but this only made him happier, based on the way he kept toasting to Newt and Percival and to death in general.

“You are not eating, my love,” Percival couldn’t help but notice, frowning down at Newt’s untouched plate. “Is the food not to your liking? The Arae can cook you something else – what is it that you desire?”

“I have no doubt the food would taste excellent,” was Newt’s stiff response, “but I know that if I were to eat the food of the Underworld, it would tie me to your kingdom for all eternity – it was among the things my brother warned me about when I was little, never to eat food offered to me by gods when he's not present. That is why I will not eat anything that grew or was made in your kingdom, though I hope you will not be insulted by this.”

Newt was right: Had he eaten even a crumb of a bread made in the Underworld, he would have been tied to the kingdom for the rest of his eternal life. He could make short trips above ground, but he would always, _always_ , need to come back or he would cease to exist. This applied to Percival already, and while he couldn’t see why being tied to the Underworld would be something Newt wanted to avoid, he let the matter rest, blaming Theseus for having scared Newt enough to prevent him from even eating.

“Percival, Your Highness – I did not know you were looking for a bride!” the delighted voice of one of the Arae, Queenie, drew Percival’s attention to his right. “What a wonderful surprise!”

Elegantly despite of her slight haste, Queenie placed a bowl full of pomegranates onto their table, before offering Newt a blinding smile, her translucent, golden wings giving a bit of a shiver.

“Welcome to the Underworld, honey!”

She offered him her slender hand and Newt took it after a moment of hesitation to give it a shake.

“I’m Queenie,” she introduced herself, smoothing down her short silvery skirt.

“This is Newt,” announced Percival, twining an arm around his bride’s shoulders. “I was successful in stealing him from his armed brother, Theseus, the god of harvest.”

“Clearly.” Queenie smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. “I’m very happy for you both, my lord. If you don’t mind me saying so, it sure was the time for you to get yourself a bride, lonely as you were. And I, for one, believe the Underworld could well do with a queen.”

Still smiling, her gaze travelled from Newt to the crowd, landing finally onto Jacob – who was staring straight at her with his mouth hanging open, a forgotten spoon in his hand half way to his mouth, eyes wide and so full of awe that Percival could read it even from the distance.

“Oh, my,” said Queenie softly with a blink. “Oh my. This is- Oh, um, if you excuse me, my lords…”

With that, she made her way towards the staring mortal to introduce herself.

* * *

Percival didn’t couple with Newt that first night, nor the many that followed, although he did have Newt sleeping beside him on the bed since the very first night. He wanted Newt to get used to their new sleeping arrangements, he wanted to give Newt time to adapt, and so he conscientiously spilled his seed _before_ climbing next to Newt onto the bed.

Sometimes Percival touched himself while bathing in privacy, but he much preferred to do it while the two of them were sitting in the garden, enjoying the peace of the palace. It was always more enjoyable to rub his organ when Newt was somewhere nearby for him to see, and often when Newt fed thorn-squirrels with thistles, Percival pulled his organ out and admired his wife-to-be until seed shot out and he was left panting on the bench.

Sometimes – and those were the best of times – Newt wanted to watch, endlessly fascinated as he was with Percival's penis. When he noticed Percival pulling himself out, he sometimes came to sit on the bench, head tilted to the side, round eyes raking over the hardened length, following the increasing movement of Percival’s hand. Once, when Percival again came, Newt reached out and touched the seed on the bench with a careful finger. He brought the digit up to his mouth and took it in, the look on his face one of concentration as he got the first taste of his husband-to-be’s release.

Those were the times when it became particularly difficult for Percival to not claim, to not take Newt, but he knew he needed to give his bride more time, still – Newt was not yet ready to be taken, to be claimed, and Percival could have hurt him mentally had he set his claim before the time was right.

* * *

Day in, day out, Newt refused to eat anything, and after some time he began to lose weight. That was enough to prompt Percival to send for food from above, from the world of the living, and that Newt was content enough to eat since it didn't bind him to the Underworld.

* * *

Jacob – and Queenie, who began to tag along with Jacob, much to Jacob’s obvious delight – was of great help when it came to Newt settling in comfortably. His excitement and curiosity were contagious, and Percival often saw the two of them searching for new rooms in the palace or roaming around the surrounding gardens. Sometimes they even ventured further into the kingdom to investigate only to return later, faces glowing with excitement over a day or week spent adventuring.

“It’s wonderful to be dead!” Jacob would often exclaim, while Queenie would look at him with sparkling eyes.

“If only you had died sooner,” she would say, and Jacob would nod emphatically.

“If only I had died sooner!” he would agree, taking her hand in his.

Even more than adventuring, Newt clearly loved creatures of all kinds. Every week when Percival left to feed Cerberus, Newt insisted on coming with, and Cerberus grew to like Newt almost as fast as Newt befriended fire demons, cyclops, minotaurs, chimera and several of the poisonous snakes Percival had placed near the gates to keep unwanted people away. One of the living blood-darts, named Pickett by Newt, even grew so attached to the queen-to-be that Newt began to carry it around on his shoulder, much to Percival’s delight and amusement.

Unlike Newt, Jacob wasn’t nearly so fond of the creatures of the Underworld, and he always stayed with Queenie at the palace when Newt wanted to go see one creature or another. The mortal was frightened of them, even after Percival swore they would not hurt any a mortal soul, but Percival supposed Jacob would grow out of it with time and so he didn’t worry overly much.

* * *

One night when Percival had just spilled his seed, standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at Newt sprawled under the sheets, and had climbed into the bed next to Newt, settling down comfortably, Newt turned to his side to face him.

“Percival?” his voice was soft. “I need to tell you something."

"What is it, my love?"

Newt bit his lip, looking suddenly guilty. When he spoke next, his voice was low like he was inclosing a secret not meant for others to hear, "I have never felt as free as I do down here. I have never before experienced so much freedom. I'm allowed to roam as I wish to. I'm allowed to talk with anyone I want to. I can make my own decisions, for the most part. A prisoner or not.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” and glad Percival was, too, “but you are hardly a prisoner.”

Newt frowned, sleepily.

“If I’m not a prisoner, may I leave the Underworld when I want to?”

Percival looked away, uncomfortable.

“You may not.”

“Well, then, does that not make me a prisoner?”

Percival didn’t have an answer, and so he remained silent.

* * *

Thirty-two days after Newt’s arrival, Theseus finally managed to make his way to the gates of the Underworld. Tina, the head of the Arae, was the one to inform Percival of this, and Percival was not pleased to hear of it at all.

He quite likely had the most difficult brother-in-law-to-be in the entire cosmos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it.


	6. Chapter 6

”Can you stick your tongue out, please?”

Newt could and did, and Percival groaned, guiding his organ to the waiting tongue. The green eyes were round as ever, looking up at Percival, blinking, and a slight flush only served to bring out the freckles more clearly. Percival had taken off both of their clothes, disregarding them on a bench nearby, and it was a pleasantly difficult decision to choose whether to focus his gaze on the pretty face blushing with the tongue stuck out, or on the pale lean body beyond it.

The garden around them was verdant, the smell of pomegranates heavy in the air. Percival planned on fucking his queen-to-be against every tree in his kingdom but, for now, he rubbed his penis along the tongue, shivering at the sensation, at the hot smooth glide of it. The tip spread precum and spit all over the heated skin, as he moved it against Newt’s face as he wished, and all the while his bride knelt there on the garden ground by the rose bushes, tongue stuck out for his use, looking up at him, unresisting, _more beautiful than any a rose_ , if also clearly somewhat confused by the purpose of their actions.

They hadn’t done this before.

“Take a hold of my shaft.”

Much to his pleasure, Newt obeyed without question, humming, the long fingers of both hands wrapping around his hardened dick like that was what they were created for. Percival told Newt as much, which was enough for the pink tongue to disappear back into the inviting mouth and for a thoughtful frown to appear on Newt’s forehead behind the light copper fringe.

Thankfully, the hands wrapped around his organ remained as they were and so Percival could hold back his complaints. He didn’t, however, hold back his thrusts and instead allowed himself to fuck the hands wrapped around his length. The churning in his belly had him voicing his pleasure, groaning out loud, praising the “velveteen touch beyond comparison”. An instinct urged him to reach out, to grasp a few of the curly locks at random. Apart from one yelp, Newt didn’t resist and Percival reveled in his queen submitting to him.

 _Today he would put a finger in his bride_ , Percival decided. _Or a few, if all went well._

“You’re _mine_ ,” he growled through gritted teeth, tightening his hold on the hair, daring to pull a little, not enough to hurt, but enough to make it a sensation of its own. “Mine _to keep_. I found you, Newt, I stole you. We will get married. I will take you as I like. You are _mine_.”

“Be that as it may, I don’t think my hands were created for the exact purpose of holding your seeder,” the thoughtful words managed to penetrate Percival’s haze of pleasure. “I wouldn’t have minded if they had, I quite enjoy holding it. But I still don’t think that’s the truth since my father would most certainly disapprove of us touching like this.”

Panting, shaking his head to clear it, Percival released the soft locks to swipe sweat off his forehead with his arm. He slowed down the thrusts until finally his dick rested burning hot and hard and motionless in Newt’s grasp. As if by instinct, the fingers around him tightened their hold.

Fond, smiling down at his love, Percival pet the hair, encouragingly.

“Then tell me, my queen-to-be, what is the truth behind your creation?”

Newt eyed Percival’s organ with the same fascination he always did, working his hands up and down the shaft as if to study the feel of it now that it was still enough for him to better observe. Percival didn’t hide his pleasure, groaning and sighing at the sensations, and Newt – after the first look of surprise brought on by the sounds – looked increasingly proud of himself after each noise Percival let out. He kept on peeking up at Percival from behind his fringe as it to see if Percival was still enjoying being touched, as if to make sure he was still pleasing Percival, and Percival was so turned on he could hardly keep still. He ran his hands over his chest, felt the muscles there flexing, pinched his nipples, touched his way downward following the path of dark hair on his defined torso until he finally reached his groin and could cup his testicles.

“My creators don’t really get along,” Newt sounded wistful, even as Percival rubbed the balls against his cheek. “They only came together for long enough to create me and afterwards they haven’t really been talking. It’s mostly because my father is so very protective of me. I’m his only child while only one of many to my mother and he’s so protective of me he won’t even let my mother come to see me in case she might steal me away. He also insists I call him my brother to confuse anyone who might want to use his paternal connection to me against him.”

His brother.

That brought Percival to a halt.

“Theseus is your… _father_?”

“Yes,” said Newt.

“Not your brother?”

“Not at all.”

Theseus. A _father_. _Newt’s_ father. Percival’s father-in-law.

Percival had trouble grasping the concept and so he – letting go off his balls – instead grasped the pretty god kneeling in front of him by the shoulders. He pulled Newt up to his feet and twined his arms around the lithe body. Newt’s hands came to rest on his chest, yet another part of Percival that seemed to endlessly fascinate Newt.

“This,” said Percival, “is called kissing.”

He tilted his head a little, bringing their lips together. Newt’s lips were even softer than they looked and they tasted of blooming flowers, of melting snow, of _spring_. It was a sweet taste, a heady one, and Percival ran his tongue along the lips to mix his own rawer taste to it. The smooth glide of their lips was as perfect as he had known it would be.

When their lips eventually parted, Percival found his voice to ask, huskily, “And tell me, my little flower, for what purpose were you created by Theseus and your mother?”

“For loving,” Newt said with a smile that was enough to light up his eyes. “For tending to growth, to life. For bringing warmth and life to the world of mortals. I was created to love and to be loved, and my creators do love me dearly, too.”

That Newt was created for love, that was easy to believe. It made perfect sense.

“I love you,” Percival declared. “I adore you. There is no being as lovely as you in the existence. One quiet look from you is enough to silence the roaring in my mind. Mere moments though we might have known each other, yet my heart is already full of you as if you had always been there, as if I had only just realized that my love for you had been created in my own creation.”

Perhaps it had been. Grindelwald was as wicked as they came, but his mother – based on what little Percival had heard of her – had been a gentle soul, a loving one. Perhaps his mother had planted the love seed in his heart to keep him from ever belonging to Grindelwald who was incapable of love entirely.

Percival now arranged Newt to his liking. The lean body yielded to his touches, Newt went willingly down on all fours, didn’t resist when Percival pushed the front of his body flat against the ground. He turned his head to look back when Percival knelt down behind his ass raised to point upwards, the look on his face one of innocence as Percival took him by the hips and grinded himself against the crack between the buttocks.

“Theseus would disapprove of us doing this,” was not more than a mild observation.

“I only care about what you think,” Percival nonetheless made clear, although that wasn’t entirely the truth – the petty side of him was pleased to know he was doing something Theseus wouldn’t approve of. “So the question is: do _you_ disapprove of this?”

“No,” the answer came almost too quickly, the hands tightening to fists. The organ between Newt’s legs was hardened, confirming his denial to be the truth, Percival was reverent to note. “I have told you before I enjoy the touch of your seeder. The sensation of being held still by you is pleasant as well. My only complaint is that I can’t get any closer to you. I can’t help but feeling like we should be even closer, somehow.”

“When I enter you, when I push my penis inside you, then we will be close enough to feel as one.”

It was a promise easily given.

That was the moment Tina landed next to them among the rose bushes, her black wings gleaming in the light of the palace.

“My lord,” she sounded out of breath like she had flown to them as fast as she had been able to. “We are under attack! The god of harvest is trying to make his way through the gate.”

* * *

The loud clung-clung-clung echoed from the gates and by the time Percival and Newt climbed up onto the stonewall, they could see Theseus banging a giant hammer against the unyielding stones as if determined to break his way through.

“The hammer of destruction,” Percival noted, mildly. “I thought I had it thrown in the deepest of oceans.”

“You did,” snarled Theseus, bringing the hammer to a halt in order to glower up at him, “but Poseidon went down and got it for me when I convinced it was for the best. And now you, god of death, will give my brother back before I tear your kingdom to pieces!”

Percival made a point of twining a possessive arm around Newt’s shoulders, pulling him fast to his side. Newt didn’t resist, although he did look worried.

“Your _son_ ,” Percival said, “is mine now. You can’t have him back.”

“I _will_ have him back. He is _mine_ to protect.”

“And mine to fuck.”

To emphasize his point, Percival bent Newt over the side, careful to keep him from falling, and pulled the thin material of his godly attire up enough to reveal Newt’s bare backside. Gently, he caressed each buttock, one at a time, ignoring Theseus’ roars of rage. The Arae around them tightened their holds on their spears. Tina looked ready to attack at his sign.

Instead of the attack sign, Percival gave one cheek an experimental slap. Newt yelped, startled, and tried to pull away as if by instinct. Percival didn’t let him go, slapping instead his behind again.

“Mine to spank,” Percival told a seething Theseus, smugly. “Mine to love.”

“Oh dear,” said Newt, softly. “Oh dear. This won’t end well.”

“I will take your head for what you have done, god of death and all misery!” cried Theseus. “Come down from there and fight me, or are you enough of a coward to let your people fight your battles for you?”

Percival frowned.

Much to Newt’s displeasure, he accepted the challenge.

* * *

Percival ended up facing Theseus down on the ground, far enough from Cerberus to avoid causing the dog any harm. Theseus had, fortunately, let Cerberus be and had instead tried to make his way through the stonewall as far from the three heads as he could get without leaving the gate area completely.

While Theseus was a formidable opponent, Percival was the god of death standing in front of his bride and the Arae in his own kingdom and Theseus therefore didn’t really stand a chance. The fight was over quickly, in some hours, and Percival took the first opportunity he had to swing Theseus’ head off with his sword.

The head rolled down the small hill, the headless body falling down to its knees. Effectively, with the Arae cheering him on, Percival cut Theseus into pieces to leave no room to question which one of them had won.

No-one threatened his kingdom, no-one threatened to tear it apart, no-one tried to take his wife away.

Afterwards, Newt was mad at him.

“So rude of you! I won’t sleep in the bed with you tonight,” Percival was informed before Newt went down to collect his father’s body parts. While Percival observed, careful to intervene the minute it was necessary, Newt sewed Theseus back together one body part after another. He never even looked at Percival, muttering instead things about rudeness and family members fighting, and that was enough to dull Percival’s moment of triumph.

By the time Theseus woke up, whole again, immortal as he was, Percival had already collected his bride and was on his way back to the palace. Only Tina stood there by the gate, Cerberus’ leash in hand.

“I am to escort you away,” she said and, with Cerberus growling at him, Theseus had little other choice but to leave the kingdom.

“I will get my brother back,” he swore before climbing up to the world of mortals. “The god of death might think he has won, but this is only the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better update now so I won't abandon this fic entirely. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.
> 
> Penny for your thoughts! ;)


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